


Shift, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Being Uncool

by ellief



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, High School, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellief/pseuds/ellief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave becomes intrigued by Sollux as a case study in an under-researched branch of irony. That is the thing he's doing; it has nothing at all to do with those troubling and recurring urges to touch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Trainwreck of Uncool

**Author's Note:**

> I have this bad habit of keeping a list of kink meme prompts I totally intend to fill someday, but never getting around to it, or getting around to it so damn late that replying in the meme itself would just be stupid.
> 
> A fill started writing itself in my head a while back. I blame the fugue-like state of sleep deprivation I was in at the time. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
> 
> The original prompt went like this:  
>  _I'd really love to see Dave/Sollux. Like, either a human high school AU or something or even just everyone finally meets in person, whatever. Dave meets Sollux and finds him...too attractive. And his lisp is so distracting, and Dave isn't sure why, but it's incredibly sexy and Sollux himself is really adorable to boot. And Dave actually worries about his apparent lack of eating/sleeping regularly._
> 
> __~~bonus if side mentions of karkat/john or john/vriska~~  
>  s-sob this anon would really love a human AU but anything is fine anon just really want dave/sollux interaction and maybe eventual light smut and dat lisp. __
> 
> So, anon long lost to the mists of time, this is for you.

The hard thing about being a connoisseur of irony is that sometimes you can't tell whether something _started out_ cool. You can judge to within a degree where a thing _lands_ on that glorious circle of "cool" to "so cool it kind of sucks" to "sucky" to "so sucky it's cool." You can aim with unerring accuracy for a specific spot on that circle, like you do with your webcomic, which goes, in your expert opinion, around said circle six times before triumphantly straddling the line between "so shitty it's awesome" and "so shitty it's just shitty." You like to think it sits there on that line, wiggling its pert metaphorical ass impudently, daring anyone to guess how much of its shittiness is deliberate.

All of the shittiness is deliberate. All of it.

But sometimes you can't tell, and right now you're waiting in line in the cafeteria, thinking about a specific case. A specific person, in fact, that new kid, Captor or something, currently shuffling along four spots ahead of you. Is he a coolkid pretending to be lame, or is he so lame that he goes around to cool?

You've decided to make him a case study in this important and neglected branch of irony research. Over the last few days, you've observed his mismatched shoes, those stupid 3D-looking glasses, and the way he takes notes, with his whole skinny body curled around the desk so he's practically writing upside-down. Why doesn't he just get a damn left-handed notebook? you wonder, but one of the things that makes him so defiantly uncool that he rounds the arc of the circle back into cool is that there's so many ways he could make shit easier on himself, _so many_ , and he doesn't seem to do _any_ of them.

Does he even comb his hair, for example? It's all cowlicks, four in particular standing up on top of his head like a crazy double pair of horns. His hair's so _stupid_ that you can't stop looking at it. He's really just a trainwreck of uncool, and you're rubbernecking at it with your cameraphone out.

That's a good one. You make a mental note to remember that one.

Captor mutters something with all the downward-staring, slouch-shouldered awkwardness you expect, and you barge up to right behind him in line in time to hear the lunch lady bark, "What?"

Like you, he's mastered the art of rolling his eyes with his entire body, so that it's perfectly obvious that's what he does, even with the glasses. "The _thoup_ ," he says, and oh fuck, that lisp is too perfect, it's like the grace note to the trainwreck. (Can trainwrecks have grace notes? You unilaterally decide they can.)

It's also really weirdly _sexy_ , a thought so profoundly uncool that you instinctively glance around to make sure no one can tell you had it. By the time you've ascertained your cool is intact, Captor's gone.

But not far.

Picking an ironic lunch from the choices available in your high school cafeteria is a challenge, and you doubt anyone appreciates the effort you put into it. You do it anyway. You're just committed like that. Your favorite, which you get today, is a veggie burger topped with cheese and bacon.

You probably need to refine that. It's too obvious. Though maybe it's obvious _enough_ that it works on even more levels, which is always the goal.

You can get away with sitting at a table by yourself, because you own that shit, you sit there like you're holding court and no commoner's been granted the privilege of sharing the royal table yet.

Captor really, really doesn't own it. It's, like, fascinating how much he doesn't, slouched in the corner seat of his corner table all spikes and angles, like he's in the wild and that's his defense against natural predators. Hostile, do not approach, except if you got close enough to poke him, he'd just curl into a ball or something.

You approach.

"Why do you wear those? World's 3D already, or haven't you noticed?" Pretty good opener, you think. Nice mix of insolent and curious.

Captor's shoulders shift as if you've put a hand on his back and he's trying to shake it off, angular shoulderblades poking like wings at the fabric of his t-shirt. "None of your-- fuck off," he says, and you realize he's trained himself to avoid giving the lisp away as much as possible. Nope, can't have that.

You claim the seat opposite him. _There's no place like 127.0.0.1_ , the t-shirt says, because of course it does.

"I need your cooperation in a very important project," you say. "For science." You take a bite of your burger. You don't point out its contents. Trying too hard is the death of irony. Most of the time.

"What ith it?" Captor says, and scowls. God damn, the scowl's almost cuter than the lisp. He's acting all absorbed in the task of crumbling about a hundred crackers into his soup.

"A web project. The coding guy, that's you, right?"

"Right..."

"I want to see how crappy we can make something and still force it to go viral." Which is totally off the top of your head and brilliant, if you say so yourself. Hide your real project inside a fake one.

Captor quirks an eyebrow behind the glasses, face otherwise blank. He's good.

"I want to see how _low_ the lowest common denominator _goes_. Plumb the depths of irony, hold a mirror up to society."

Captor blinks. "You are tho full of thit," he says, and he's too busy trying not to grin to bother with scowling this time.

"I'm hearing a yes," you coo.

The grin breaks out, just for a second. "Yeah. Okay, yeah."

He scoops the crackers out onto the plate, all soggy like some sort of disgusting home ec project, like papier mâché slurry or some shit, and eats those. He doesn't touch the rest of the soup. He's so skinny, he's like bird bones thrown together anywhichway, and is that seriously all he's going to eat? Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and wrap a hand around one of his wrists. Your middle finger and thumb overlap.

Captor jerks his arm away. "Dude, what the fuck?"

That was so uncool. What the fuck, indeed, came over you? "You'll have to eat human food more normally if you don't want anyone to figure out you're an alien," you improvise, saving the situation. "Possibly from _the future_."

"Nah," he says. "I'm counting on everyone thinking you're crazy and not believing you." He gathers the wreckage he's spawned and picks up his tray to leave.

"I'll find your spaceship!" you call after him, pretending to pretend you don't care about the looks you're getting. It's all about the _layers_ of irony. "We'll see who's crazy then!"

He flips you off behind his back as he walks away, and you've reached your verdict.

He is so, so cool.


	2. An Alarming Mutation

"So, Egbert," you say in Chemistry. "You know anything about this Captor kid?" So casual, like you seriously couldn't care less.

Which you couldn't. You're just doing some background research.

"Oh, Sollux?" Egbert says, smiling (he always smiles). "I like him." (Egbert likes everyone.)

Egbert's so goddamn normal and well-adjusted, the irony in just being friends with him is off the charts. His dad wears a _fedora_ and leaves him encouraging notes that are so full of avuncular paternalism that you've considered starting a tumblr devoted to them.

"Try to put how much of a friendship slut you are aside for a minute, and tell me what he's like."

_You_ try to stop thinking about how Captor's--Sollux's--wrist felt so fragile, caged in your fingers. Was his skin warm, could you feel his pulse? You ought to have noticed these things, but you didn't.

"He's nice," Egbert says.

"You think _everyone's_ nice. The word's lost all meaning thanks to you."

You're used to each other, the two of you, but he still gives you a petulant little look, sharp flash of blue over his glasses, and maybe you should try that maneuver. It's super-effective.

"Most people _are_ , Dave. Just because you're so busy trying to seem cynical and above it all, that doesn't mean everyone _sucks_."

"Vantas isn't as awful as he could be. Good job picking your boyfriend, at least."

"He-- he's not. We're not-- Karkat and I are just good friends!"

"Uh-huh. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Egbert."

"I'm not gay!"

You look at your best friend long enough to be sure he can tell you're radiating skepticism from behind the shades.

"Not that there's anything wrong with it. I'm just not," he gabbles. You could set your watch by him sometimes.

"Captor?" you say, shoving him into getting back with the program.

Egbert thinks for a moment, still pouty, fussing with the slides to make sure they're perfectly aligned. Your division of labor is optimal. He does the experiments, you write them up. Often with illustrations. Ms. Lalonde has written DAVE, NO more than once in reference to your works of art, but you know she secretly loves them.

"He hangs out in the computer lab most of the time. All the time, really. Once... I dunno, it's kind of personal."

You give the over-the-glasses look a try.

" _Fine_. Once, we were both there when they were closing up and kicked us out, and I waited around with him for a while in the parking lot. He's pretty shy. Nobody came to pick him up. I felt bad, and I wanted to invite him to my house, but... it seemed like he would've been offended."

"Good call. He's bristly as fuck. He's like a porcupine in 3D glasses." It makes you feel weird, to think about Captor waiting all alone. Trying to pretend it's all right, you bet, as the sky darkens and the lights start to come on, and the parking lot empties out, and it's the looks from the people leaving, all smug in their warm cars, feeling sorry for you, that really piss you off...

This is stupid. He probably prefers being alone.

"Why do you want to know?" Egbert says, slipping the first slide onto the microscope.

"He's my new project."

Egbert giggles--yeah, he actually giggles. "You might have some competition. I think Karkat beat you to it."

"What the hell does Mr. Shoutypants want with a geeky new kid?"

"You know he hates it when you call him that."

"Thus my love of doing it every chance I get. Anyway, he hates everything, but I don't see you getting your delicate boypanties in a wad about _that_. Oh no. It's just hate on Strider for having the only sane response to an insane world."

Egbert looks up from checking the microscope, and he's smiling tolerantly. You hate it when he does that. He looks like he might call you cute and ruffle your hair any second. "He says, and I quote--" He scrunches his eyebrows together. "THAT KID IS SO PATHETIC HE'S LIKE A WALKING 'KICK ME' SIGN. HE DOESN'T COMPLETELY SUCK, SO OBVIOUSLY IT FALLS TO ME, LIKE IT ALWAYS FUCKING DOES, TO BE A HOPE FOR THE HOPELESS, FRIEND TO THE FRIENDLESS, AND SAVE HIM FROM THE NINTH CIRCLE OF HELL, ALSO KNOWN AS ANDREWS HIGH."

"Not bad. I'm sure you have a natural talent for impressions, and haven't spent obsessive hours studying Vantas's... _special_ way of expressing himself."

Egbert grins at the compliment and ignores the rest, like you knew he would. Kid has developed truly remarkable selective listening skills. You take credit for that.

After Chem, you intend to track Captor down, but when you get to your locker, you see he beat you to it, slouching there like he's about to be picked last for dodgeball. You realize that, alarmingly, your inability to stop staring at his hair is mutating into an urge to touch it.

"Stalking me already? I'm flattered, but please. Under my gruff exterior, I'm actually a delicate flower."

"Bullthit."

Damn it, the lisp hasn't gotten any less sexy in the last few hours, and the way Captor says that, as if daring you to notice it and make something of it, is weirdly sexy, too.

"We actually doing thith?" he says.

"You bet your skinny alien ass we are."

"Are you trying to make 'alien' a thing?" He gives you a flat look, which is fairly impressive, given how normal for him is already calibrated to deadpan. "Don't."

"Who's the delicate flower now?"

He does that thing where he rolls his eyes with his whole body, and heads for the computer lab, not looking back to see if you're following.

He claims a machine at the end of a row, against the wall, of course, and you scoot the chair next to his a shade too close and try to read over his shoulder, but he types at the speed of light, and he's logged in before you even see his username.

"Here." He pulls a notebook out of his backpack, and shoves it at you like he's ashamed of it, except you're starting to be able to translate Captor to Human, and he's not embarrassed enough to mangle Human in an attempt to avoid the letter S. "I had thome ideath in clath."

'Some' is a good contender for understatement of the year. The whole damn page is full of Captor's chickenscratch, red and blue crammed into the margins, stats and diagrams and shit. "Forget the alien thing," you say. "You have a _computer_ for a brain."

Captor makes a sound it takes you a second to realize is a laugh, short and sharp and unexpected, and by the time you look at him, he's ducked his head, hiding under that awful, tempting hair. You're pretty sure what he's hiding is a smile. A real one, surprised out of him.

You really, really want to make him do it again.


	3. Float

"Are you _trying_ to make me puncture my own eardrumth?"

You've concluded that the shittiest possible thing _has_ to involve Rickrolling, and your coder is objecting.

"The kittenth, I can handle. The goddamn _baby hedgehogth_ , fine."

"They remind me of you," you chime in, and Captor flips you a double bird.

"But _thith_. Thith... abominathun mathquerading ath one-hit wonder. How can thomething tho _thitty_ get _lodged_ in your brain tho completely?"

 _Fuck_ , he's cute when he gets too worked up to avoid S's. This thought might have alarmed you once, but if you took the time to be concerned about every thought like it that's floated through your brain these last few days, you'd be in a constant state of being shocked at yourself, like some internalized easily-scandalized granny, clutching her pearls, and that is no way to live.

"That's slander. You have crossed a line, Captor. He had _two_ hits."

"Wath the other ath bad?"

"Yep," you say cheerfully. "But somehow, it's been sadly neglected as meme fodder. Maybe our next project should focus on fixing that."

"You're athuming I'll have gotten the frontal lobotomy I need to agree to there _being_ a next project."

But he goes back to work on this one. You're pretty sure he couldn't stop at this point. Once he's pointed at code, he just keeps going until it's done, some kind of nerd Energizer bunny fueled by those weird honey-flavored candies he keep a stash of in his backpack. You've seen him correct snippets of other people's shit left on the whiteboard in the computer lab. He gets even twitchier than usual if he doesn't, like he can't _stand_ knowing other people are doing it _wrong_.

Your devious and brilliant plan of keeping Captor occupied for long enough that he'll have to eat dinner here is working. It's not like you care, or anything. You just can't have him keeling over of malnutrition before your project's done. To that end, you have obtained actual food that's actually in the freezer.

"I'm gonna throw a pizza in the oven," you say, as if that's totally a thing you do all the time, no big deal.

Captor makes a "mmphm" sound without looking up from the keyboard.

You'll have to put the shitty swords back in there before your bro notices you moved them. The last thing you want is for him to catch the scent of you making an effort for someone. That way lies only condoms left around the apartment, and living in fear that Bro will try to have a _talk_ with you about _growing up_ and shit while Captor's around to hear it.

You pretend to be scouring the net for even more horrible shit to throw into this, and you'd claim you don't think you've achieved critical mass of shittiness yet, but you're really just watching Captor. He all but goes into a trance when he gets on a roll, his eyes half-lidded behind those stupid glasses, fingers flying over the keyboard, and he kind of _talks_ to the code under his breath, like he's coaxing it along. He probably doesn't realize he's doing it. It's yet another thing about him that's both hopelessly dorky and weirdly sexy, and maybe you should be more concerned about your objectivity here, but you just want to figure out how it's possible. How _he's_ possible.

He seems to have forgotten you're here, until, with a final rattle of keys like the crescendo of a sonata, he stops typing and surfaces from his trance.

"There," he says. "Now the hedgehogth _dance_ to the thitty two-hit wonder. Happy?"

"All my dreams are coming true at once," you say. "Hungry?"

He blinks. "Yeah, actually."

You fully expect him to do something weird with the pizza, like pull the crust off and just eat that, but all he does is fold the slice in half before biting into it.

"What time do your parenth get home?"

"Beats the hell out of me. They're about thirteen years late already."

"Oh, fuck. Thorry, I didn't--"

"You didn't know. Don't worry about it."

He slouches, though, in that way he does when he's trying to hide, and it irritates you into saying what you mean, without bothering to make it ironic. "C'mon, don't do that."

Captor darts a glance at you from behind the glasses (you wonder what his eyes look like without them), and unslouches. "For thomeone tho full of it, you have a damn good bullthit detector."

"Takes one to know one," you banter back, and if that's skating too close to the truth, you don't care; there's a heady giddiness in doing it.

On the flimsiest of pretexts (new game, HD TV), you get him to stay a little longer, and you sit on the couch while he sits on the floor, leaning as if it'll make the character go where he wants, as he navigates this weird red guy through the desert. (Your Bro would embarrass the shit out of you if he knew you'd brought someone here, but you offer a silent thanks to him for always having the latest tech.)

Maybe fifteen minutes into the game, you get up the nerve to adjust your position on the couch, casual as hell, and let your hand fall, like it's totally an accident, onto Captor's shoulder. He's fucking rigid. You feel secondhand twitchiness just looking at him, just touching him, like something's got to snap, and if he won't, you will, because the tension is crazy up in here, it _radiates_ off him.

"Do you even relax when you're asleep?" you say.

"No, and fuck you, Thtrider."

It's the first time he's used your name, and fuck, it's more adorable than you would've imagined. You slip your fingers into his hair.

"Hey," he says, his guy on the screen going still, and you can't tell if it's _hey, stop_ , or _hey, that feels pretty good_ , or even just _hey, I've noticed your hand's in my hair_. Most of those are a step up from _what the fuck_ , at least.

"You ought to get used to being touched. It's a thing that happens. Sometimes, people even like it."

Captor pulls away. All the way away, drops the controller and gets up, rounds on you with a scowl. "You're trying to _thothalize_ me? Like a fucking wild animal?"

"Yeah," you say, pretending you're not taken aback. He gives you this look, like he expected you to deny it, had already started to build up steam to argue you into admitting it, and is annoyed that it has nowhere to go now.

His shoulders slump, and he sits back down, completely ignoring the game. Leans his head lightly enough for plausible deniability against your knee. "Athole."

"Uh-huh, you love me."

You also pretend you don't hear the snort he gives at that. You go back to toying with his hair, trying to smooth down the cowlick horns, which won't stay smoothed. Captor finally relaxes a little, letting his head droop forward the slightest bit, and you rub your thumb over his neck, trying to work out the knots there. He makes this little noise in his throat that's barely a noise at all, like he can't help it but tries to.

You've hardly even _touched_ him, and you're already dizzy with wanting him.

"See? That's better." It comes out maybe a little breathless, but you don't think he notices.

"Yeah. I gueth." That sounds suspiciously breathy, too.

You trace along the sharp lines of his shoulderblades, not even pretending anymore that you're doing anything other than petting him, and his shoulders curl, but not like he's trying to shake you off, a hell of a lot more like he can't help that, either. 

"Captor," you say, not entirely on purpose. For once in your life, any more words fail you. Not because you have nothing to say, but because there's so _much_ that you're afraid your brain will take opening your mouth as an invitation to let it all spill out, hopelessly jumbled and sappy. For once in your life, you're afraid that the thing you say will be the _wrong_ thing.

He looks back at you, and you sort of nudge at him to get him to move, and then you're kneeling on the floor looking down at him, not sure how you got there. You just slid off the couch and let gravity do the rest, and you're still lucid enough (barely) to appreciate that you probably couldn't have done it so neatly if you'd been _trying_.

"Sollux," you say, for the first time, and you know, somehow, that you have permission to pull the glasses off. 

His eyes are mismatched, too, one blue, one brown, a weird clear brown that's almost red, like cherry liqueur or claret. Are you only thinking that because he goes to your head, makes you feel drunk? Maybe. It's profoundly uncool, but you want to kiss him so bad, you don't even care.

It's not like you've never kissed anyone before. It's not even like you've never kissed a _guy_ before; Makara seems to consider sloppy makeouts, complete with groping, an acceptable way to say 'hi.'

But it _feels_ like you've never done this before when you lean down, carefully, giving Captor time to back out. Feels like you're inventing it for yourselves, just the two of you, when your lips finally brush his and it sends a jolt of heat up your spine. You hear his intake of breath, short and sharp, and it makes this _heat_ bloom in your chest, fierce and weirdly protective, makes you want to make this _amazing_ for him.

"Wait," he says, and your heart feels like it stops. "Yourth too."

You're so relieved he didn't mean _stop_ that you nod without thinking about it. A split-second later, you're blinking against the unfamiliar light--the living room's dim, but it doesn't seem that way without the shades. Captor's blushing, which makes you feel better about your own face feeling hot, and you have another smile to add to your tiny catalog of them, this one more with his eyes than his mouth.

You don't have time to note too much about it, because it shifts into this determined look, like _are we doing this or not?_ , and he tugs you back down.

His fingers are cool against the back of your neck, but his lips are warm, his tongue's warm when he licks at your mouth, and you sort of thought he'd be _terrible_ at kissing, messy and awkward, but he's really, really not. He's careful, feeling his way, hesitant maybe, but when you press closer, he makes another of those little noises and gets a hell of a lot less hesitant. You lose track of time, even, which isn't a thing that happens to you often, and get lost in how he tastes like that honey candy he's been popping, in the way his fingers slowly curl into your hair.

When you break apart, you're both definitely breathless, and you can't stop grinning.

"I... thould get home," Captor says.

"Yeah. Guess you should." It's getting late. You have to lean in for another quick kiss, though, as if to say _I like it there, I'll be back_.

After he's gone, you put the shitty swords back in the freezer. You're still kind of floating from the kiss, but looking around makes gravity reassert itself with a vengeance. Who are you kidding with this? Don't you realize that if you let someone close enough to know you, they'll... _know you_? They'll look around this fucking mess and wonder how the hell they got here, what the hell they're doing with _you_.

You give yourself a hard mental shake. Thoughts unworthy of a Strider, come on, man, get it together. Anyone would be lucky to have you.

You don't buy it, this pep talk that's cheesy without even sort of approaching ironically cheesy, but that doesn't matter. You never do. All that matters is that you _look_ like you buy it.


	4. Stupid Synergy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave needs to hear some harsh truths, and Karkat's thrilled to provide them.

There comes a time in the life of every high-school student when he must look bravely down the branching paths of his destiny, and choose a course. A time that separates the men from the boys, the women from the girls, the genderqueer people who have their shit together from those who don't. A time that strikes fear into the hearts of everyone, no matter how they identify or how cool they think they are. A time spoken of in whispers, a time so fraught with peril that you--even you--must convince yourself to rush in where angels fear to tread.

For you, Dave Strider, that time is now.

That time is.

Junior prom.

You're going to ask Captor, of course you are, you're just not going to do it _right now_. You need some time to plan, because it has to be some big gesture, and that shit isn't easy to pull off ironically, and it needs to be _perfect_ \--

You catch yourself thinking this, and you're horrified.

You just need to get to a point where seeing him doesn't make your stupid face heat up like it's never even heard of keeping its cool, where you can fight off the way something in your chest goes all hot and fluttery when you think about kissing him again, which is the _only_ thing you seem to be able to think about when you're around him.

You've lost sight of the project, you can't see the pieces that make him cool or not, because all you see is _him_ , and how much it's already going to hurt when he sees through _you_ , because you're a fucking moron who went into this thinking you could handle it, and you can't. Unironically cheesy pep talks are clearly easier given than followed.

So you avoid him until you can't anymore.

It's probably no more than random chance, the capricious currents and eddies and swirls of between-classes hallway traffic, but it sure as hell feels like fate's hand being especially malicious when you're both spit out of the hubbub, beached face to face in the weird little jut of hallway by the staircase.

You don't think anyone else would be able to read Captor's expressions at all, but they're perfectly clear to you. Dismayed surprise in the little breath he takes through his mouth; the urge to flee in how his eyes cut to the roiling hallway, looking for an out. Then the way he changes his mind, mouth setting hard.

"God _damn_ it, Dave, why the fuck are you avoiding me?"

Time seems to slow down, so that you have plenty of it to feel his use of your name--the first time--hit you like he's thrown a punch, plenty of time to watch two bright red spots bloom on his cheeks as he realizes how loud he was.

And you can't. You can't do this. You feel the weight of Captor's hope, see it in his eyes even with the damn glasses on. Why the hell does he have to fucking light up like that when he sees you, you saw it even now, before the anger shut it down? No one else would even notice, but you do, because you do the same thing and you _can't fucking stop_ , it's. 

A word you are _not_ going to think.

It's _something_ painted on your face for everyone in the world to see, glowing like a beacon for the world to come and take a big old shit on, because that's what the world _does_ , and fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You feel the weight of Sollux's hope, and you stumble under it.

But it's his face that crumples when you shake your head, when you hear your voice saying, "No. No, I can't do this anymore." And you can't even get an _I'm sorry_ in there. You just flee, and you try to think of something, anything, that will make the image of his face, deadpan coming all the fuck uncalibrated and shattering, not be burned into your retinas anymore.

What you find instead, after you push your way into the throng, is Egbert, who takes one look at you and just about audibly tingles with friend-in-need spidey sense, and drags you into the closest empty classroom.

"What's wrong?"

You start to say it's fine, you've got it. But you can't lie. "Captor."

"There's no way he said no."

"I didn't-- Can we not do this right now?"

"You didn't ask." Egbert huffs an irritated breath. "Of course you didn't. You're so _weird_ about being close to people that you have to wrap _liking_ someone in some kind of ironic _project_ , just because it's impossible for you to admit you want to get to know him!"

"Wow, dude. Are we even watching the same show? That's not what happened."

"Sure it is. You're crazy about him, you just won't admit it."

"I don't want to be crazy about _anyone_. Do you have any idea how lame that is? Why the hell do people act like being crazy about someone is a good thing? It's a fucking terrible thing! One day they're such a hot mess that you _have_ to know how they _happened_ , how they can possibly be so uncool and so awesome at the same time, and the next thing you know, you can't keep your hands off their stupid hair, and they've gotten their claws into you, only they didn't even _try_ , it's just the way your brain works, and the way theirs does, in this stupid synergy that makes you fucking hopeless, like you literally cannot hold onto words or _thoughts_ or anything when you're with them, and that's supposed to be _good_? This big romantic ideal? I say fuck it."

Egbert's staring at you like you've just sprouted wings and done the most acrobatic goddamn pirouette off the longest goddamn handle, and well he might. Your cool is _lost_. It's so lost you don't think you'll ever see it again; it's across the border and building a new life for itself under an assumed name. 

You've got to get out of here. You shove past Egbert before you have to see the dawning hurt in his eyes, and you just go, hands jammed in your pockets, barely aware of where you're going until you abruptly run out of steam at the soccer field and just sit the hell down. 

After a little while, you hear someone coming up behind you, and get your best "leave me the fuck alone" scowl ready. 

Then Vantas sits down next to you. The one guy immune to it. Great. 

"You're an idiot," he says. 

"Just what I needed to hear. Thanks." 

"You _do_ need to hear it, so shut your goddamn word spewer and listen. 

"You're an _idiot_ ," he repeats, obviously enjoying this way too much. "I could usually give a flying fuck, because that's exactly what I expect from a future professional douchebag like you. But." He glares at you, probably for effect, and it _still_ works; you feel about an inch tall. "This time, your dumbfuckery hurt one of the few people I actually give a shit about in this godforsaken craphole, so don't start composing some pathetic little excuse, and don't act like you don't know it. I can tell you how to fix it, and that makes me your _god_ right now." 

"Don't hold your breath for sacrifices." 

"You'd do one if I told you to. If I told you the only way to win him back was to sing your pathetic guts out serenading him with that fucking song, you'd do it." 

You would, but you'd die before admitting it, which makes Vantas taking your agreement for granted slightly less infuriating than it might otherwise be.

"But you don't have to serenade him. You don't have to ask him to prom with a flash mob and a big fucking banner. You don't have to bring him flowers or chocolate or a new computer. You have to do something much harder than any of those, something I sincerely believe you're congenitally incapable of doing." 

Damn him, he's going to make you ask. "What." 

"You have to tell him the fucking truth." He pauses a second to let that sink in, which you don't need, but your face seems to be stuck on appalled. 

"You're going to feel like an idiot," Vantas goes on, "and I pray to the god of poetic justice that you _look_ like an idiot, and that I'm there to see it. Maybe _that_ will finally get it through your monumentally thick cranium that some things are worth losing your goddamn precious cool over, and the harder you cling to it like the drowning rodent you are, the more it looks like _it's_ what you care about. Instead of him." 

The good news is that your face has come unstuck from appalled. 

The bad news is that it's now stuck on horrified at yourself. 

The bastard's right. You are the asshole. It's you. 


	5. Never Gonna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave finally tells the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to torture Dave by making this as cheesy as possible. >D Sorry not sorry for the title.

You put the video up and tweeted the link, but your heart wasn't in it. Watching the views creep up, slowly at first, then by thousands and tens of thousands, didn't even make you smile. You tried to imagine all those people with an earworm now, one you put there, they'd seriously be singing that fucking song for days. Even that didn't help. It was like you'd used up all your feelings ranting to Egbert and arguing with Vantas, and there was nothing left but a gray lump where they used to be.

It's an imperfect metaphor, but fuck it.

You couldn't go find Captor right away. Probably that was what Vantas thought you should've done, rush in like the fool you are. But you couldn't bring yourself to shove your cool away with both hands right that fucking second.

And now, when you _want_ to find Captor, when you're ready for it, the universe and bad fucking karma are in cahoots to make it impossible. He's not in the computer lab, not at the carrel at the very back of the library you know for a _fact_ he has a stash of honey candies at, he doesn't even go to his locker for three straight hours.

Not that you ditch class to stake it out or anything.

As if the universe is waiting for you to give up, it's not until you resign yourself to waiting until tomorrow that you see him through the library windows.

He's outside--obviously he ditched, too--stalking away toward the parking lot, skinny frame curled around too many books clutched to his chest like a shield, and _you_ did that, you realize with a pang that actually, physically hurts: you made him need to hide again.

The clouds look a lot more ominous than they did five minutes ago. Impatience rears up and smacks you, as if now that the waiting is almost over, it's determined to get in one more twist of the shitty sword by making you feel like you'll _explode_ if you don't do this right now.

You slam out the closest exit at almost top speed, that impatience riding you, and you're not sure he'll even be able to hear you, but you shout his name anyway.

There's a hitch in his stride, as if he flinches, and he spins. Hugs the books tighter, as if he'd really rather throw them at you. "What the _fuck_ do you want, Thtrider?"

So Vantas didn't tell him anything. Huh. You hate feeling grateful to him, but. You grudgingly admit--no harm done if it's just to yourself--that you do.

Which is kind of exactly the sort of shit Vantas _told_ you to stop doing.

And you got it, you really did, but you didn't _feel_ it.

You see the determined set of Captor's skinny shoulders, know it's the tension of trying not to break, and you sure as fuck feel it now.

You feel the weight of every stupid damn thing you've put on the other side of the scales from _him_ , from the two of you together. Feeling cool, having it under control, needing to make sure no one can reject the real you by making sure no one _knows_ the real you.

How in fuck could you have let that shit be more important than Sollux?

With timing you should've fucking expected, the bell rings, ensuring an audience for your humiliation. And the skies open up.

Fucking great.

"Just--" Shouting into the rain, could you be any more ridiculous? "Just let me talk to you."

"Why thould I?"

The wind shifts, and you get a faceful of rain that plasters your hair flat. You can hear that damn song playing somewhere, probably someone's phone, complete with the tinny giggles--Sollux objected especially strenuously to those--of the baby hedgehogs. You think the entire fucking school has come outside to watch this, and you can _feel_ Karkat Vantas laughing, somewhere. You're as uncool as you've ever been in your entire life, probably the uncoolest anyone's _ever_ been.

And you don't give a shit.

"Because I'm in love with you, you idiot!" you yell.

"Really?" He tries to make it sound skeptical, but his bangs are dripping rain, and there's a little crack in his voice, and between both those things, he doesn't remotely pull the skepticism off, and if you're not kissing him within the next ten seconds, you're going to _die_.

"Of course really! I love you, Sollux Captor. I love your lisp, and your fucking stupid hair, and how you remind me of a goddamn hedgehog in 3D glasses, and mostly I. Just. Love _you_."

Your audience murmurs, but they're nothing but white noise to you; all that matters is him, and how he's staring at you and the tension's cracking, not crumbling like last time when you were a goddamn idiot, more like he's trembling on the edge of believing, and he doesn't quite, but he _wants_ to.

"So," you say, and the trembling's in your voice, too, somehow. "Would you. Come here? Please?"

And the tension cracks into light, into this totally goofy, sunny grin, one you've _never_ seen before, still a shade of disbelief in it, but it doesn't matter because he drops the books and closes the distance between you, and you pull him into your arms, not even bothering to hold back the little relieved noise you make at how fucking good it feels to have him here again.

"Lother," he says, muffled against your neck. "You'll never get rid of me now."

"I never want to," you say. "Now shush. Only sloppy makeouts now."


End file.
